


Andesobia jelskii

by starcunning



Series: Erebidae [4]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Aetherial Manipulation (not the BLM ability), Blood Kink, Consentacles, F/M, Magical Bondage, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sensation Play, Tentacles, kallie FATE farming is really no way to finish your relic weapon, technically kallie's not the MAIN wol but u kno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2020-08-23 06:03:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20237956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starcunning/pseuds/starcunning
Summary: She felt the aether flow around her change. The gilded aether she had poured into the spell circle to tip the scales back in an astral direction was—not smothered, exactly, but enclosed, surrounded, muffled. Her senses felt dulled. The polarity normalized to the ambient cant, then plunged still deeper into the umbral realms.This was Nabriales’s own influence, she knew at once. She wanted to turn to face him, and found she could not—he recognized the impulse somehow in any case, and laughed. “Little fool,” he said. “It is not wise to externalize your power. Someone could so easily meddle with it—and you.”





	Andesobia jelskii

**Author's Note:**

> Further [imports from tumblr.](https://starcunning.tumblr.com/post/182833691604/andesobia-jelskii) This fic was done as part of a private fic exchange between friends, and is an interquel completed after the main series. The requester has asked not to be identified.
> 
> _Andesobia jelskii_ is notable for the fact that the female imago's wings are vestigial, and as such she emits mating pheromones to attract a male to her cocoon. The pair can remain in copula for several hours.

Evening came early to the Isles of Umbra, its white stone cliffs casting long shadows upon its sandy beaches. High overhead the lighthouse was aglow not with the lamplight one might expect, but with coral-like formations of corrupted crystal. It was the color of flame, and cast dim orange over the island. Kallisti could hear the lapping of waves upon the shore before her.

The tide was coming in, foam-flecked waves silvery in the moonlight, breaking around and over the hulks of sunken ships. There was no shortage of them, thanks to the submerged reefs. When the waters rose, so did the dead, and Kallisti laid in wait.

With the metal butt on the tip of her staff, she scribed a circle around her in the damp sand. She was still for a moment afterward, simply feeling the flow of aether through the place—its name was well-earned, she assessed; there was a distinct umbral cant to the energies here—and then she felt it ripple over her, disrupted like waves crashing over the breakers of silvery, salt-rimed wood.  


She did not greet Nabriales as he appeared, perched on some jut of white stone to overlook her and her work, only went back to her assessment and her construction of the spell circle. Six more circles—one for each element—interlinked by counterbalancing triangles, she decided. It was simpler than what she usually drew, but the aspect of the isle was in balance—it was simply its polarity that threatened to disrupt matters, and that was of little consequence to her anyway. The confines of her spell-circle held a neutral polarity, so that she could bend astral or umbral at will.  


The dead came, and the Ascian watched; he did not interfere as the confluence she had constructed effloresced with energy and she lifted her staff. The crystal at its top lit with violet energy, reflected and redoubled by the winglike forms that ensconced and amplified it, tails twining like twin serpents down the length of the rod.  


Kallisti’s first gout of flame merely sizzled the seawater from the old bones in a gout of steam. They advanced, uncaring. It would be easy to attribute malice to their expressions, but they bore only the rictus grins of any Hyuran skull, flesh long picked away by the scavengers of the reef. She could see scraps of gristle and waxy white adipocere clinging to them in places, seaweed threaded through their joints, crabs crawling out of their rib cage, eager to return to the sea.  


The dead men had weapons, some of them; pitted old blades. She was not afraid. She was safe there in her spell-circle, her next charge of flame escaping the end of her staff. Umbral fire was drying more than destructive, she knew, but it made a few of the skeletons brittle enough that even the force of movement was enough to make them crumble. The rest she took apart with scathing bursts of astral aether, scorched and broken bones joining the litter of their forebears upon the beach.  


In the circle she could do this for a long time—and she did, until the tide reached its zenith, still several yalms away from where she had set herself up. Kallisti had it down to an art. She could feel the will of the weapon in her hands—distinct but little stronger than it had been a moment before. Still, progress was progress. The sea washed over the old bones like reefs of white coral or the wreckage of the ships that had carelessly run aground. The waves had no care. Neither did she.

“What are you doing?” she asked Nabriales at length.  
“Merely observing,” he said with amusement. His voice echoed off the stones. A shadow passed over the little cliff where he stood, like a cloud scudding across the moon, and he was gone. She felt a pang of disappointment, lifting a hand to the nape of her neck to slip her fingers beneath the collar of her robes and touch the scar tissue there. But before she could conjure the next thought, she heard his voice—much closer, behind her, and it made her jump. “What is this?”  
“An artificial ley line,” Kallisti said. “Technically it has its roots in arcanima, but the mages of Mhach were known to use such geometries to boost their own power.”  
“Hm,” he said.

She felt the aether flow around her change. The gilded aether she had poured into the spell circle to tip the scales back in an astral direction was—not smothered, exactly, but enclosed, surrounded, muffled. Her senses felt dulled. The polarity normalized to the ambient cant, then plunged still deeper into the umbral realms.

This was Nabriales’s own influence, she knew at once. She wanted to turn to face him, and found she could not—he recognized the impulse somehow in any case, and laughed. “Little fool,” he said. “It is not wise to externalize your power. Someone could so easily meddle with it—and you.” Then he said, “Give me your weapon.”

She had ability enough to loose her grip, and he took it from her, crossing to stand before her. He had taken his hood down, somewhere in the interim; the wind tousled his sandy blond hair, and the moonlight glittered on his earrings. The mask of crimson still blanked half his expression, but the grin below it was hungry enough that she could guess at his intent. Nabriales cast the staff aside as though it were no more than some piece of driftwood she had picked from the flotsam. He did not step into the circle, because his feet did not touch the ground—likely out of a wish to leave the runes undisturbed. The Ascian lifted a single steel claw and parted her lips, pointed tip of it pricking at her tongue.

“You are mine,” he asserted, as though she could forget. She felt a jolt of aether run down her spine with the words, and she whimpered. Then his gauntlet melted away like smoke upon the air, and he began to strip her, unlacing her mantle, her corset, her robes. His fingernails were painted a dull black, like beetle wings. She peered into the blackness of his mask, trying to discern where rested his gaze, but it was of no use. He tugged and jerked and tossed layers of cloth aside until she stood nude upon the sand, the sea breeze cool against her skin. The Ascian ran a hand along her flank, feeling the goosebumps risen upon her skin, and he chuckled.

He stripped her of that sensation too; she was conscious then only of the way his aether eddied and flowed through the ley scribed upon the sands. It was more subtle but no less effective than the skeins of blackness by which he had bound her—and with which he now positioned her, legs apart, arms overhead. He lifted his hands from her body then, moving away to circle around to her back. She could not see him, could not feel his breath upon her skin nor the warmth of his body so close to hers, and yet she felt him so present just the same. Stripped of all other sensation, she could focus only on the way his aether sang through her. His power called hers to the fore, straining against her skin so that she could feel it her whole body over, heat and cataclysm that threatened to overwhelm. She could not smell the salt, could not hear the roar of the sea; all that existed for her was him, and whatever he allowed her to feel.

His power slithered over her skin, the sensation robbing her of rational thought. Her tail twitched behind her, the only vent she was allowed for overstimulated nerves. She wanted to gasp his name, between panting breaths, and it shuddered out of her after a few moments. Kallisti recalled, distantly, an evening in Ul’dah spent upon expensive carpet, her aether made the plaything of demigods. How foolish she had been to think that was the height of their capability. Nabriales’s power filled her now, seeming to radiate from a point just at the top of her spine—the brand that linked them together.

She could hear his laughter. His claws ran over her skin; when she blinked her vision clear she could watch him touch her, and feel nothing. Her head dropped forward, and she could see … something writhing from the sand, black and crimson, lively, striving, reaching; skeins of his power that wrapped around her. His aether was alive against her skin—that much she was allowed to feel. These were not the chains of shadow that had bound her in the Chrysalis and in her own bed; this was a much rawer form of his power. It curled around her, crawling over her skin. She was so alive, so helpless to that touch. Hairs stood on end, sensation crackling and prickling in reply to the smothering heat of his magic. Of his very being. She was aflame, but only in the few inches where she was allowed to feel that.

Those tendrils curled around her, about her legs and over her hips, encircling her body, curving up over her chest. He entered her as she whimpered—not with his body, as might any man, but with his aether. She trembled in her bonds, hissing and cursing and praying to endure just a little longer, to not let this end so quickly. He laughed and spoke her name.

She could not answer, only tipped her head back, lolling against her own shoulder. His hand curled about the column of her neck, thumb pressed against her jaw, tipping her head upright so that she gazed upward into the blank infinity of his mask. He was smirking, pleased; she felt his pleasure as her own then.  
“Good,” he cooed.

He was in no hurry, aether coiling and curling over her, in her. She was his plaything, body and soul—his, as she had pledged, offered up now like a gift, like a banquet, delighting in her own consumption. She felt only what he allowed her to feel—his hand around her throat, his power against her skin, the way he filled her. She could not even hear herself whimpering, though she knew she must be. His. She had made the pledge and not understood it until then.  


His gauntleted hand trailed over her stomach. She could feel the metal of his claws, cold against her too-hot skin. He dragged those tines over her flesh—through the tendrils of power that wrapped around her, without ever disrupting that sensation. Instead she was condemned to feel fire and ice at once, and the searing light of being cut, just for a moment. His hand moved on and sensation receded. He followed the lines of her body, navel to collarbone, up the lines of her arms, pricking palms and fingers. She stretched and curled her hands in his wake and felt the slickness of her skin, growing sticky, trickling back down over her arms.  


He took her by the throat and pulled her from the sand, his head bowed over her own to kiss her—though “kiss” was a word too small and too gentle for what passed between them. His lips crushed her own, his teeth raking her flesh, tongue swarming into her mouth to fill it, to taste her, to claim her. She felt everything then; he gave it all back to her in a terrible rush of sensation. She could hear the roaring of the sea and the desperate cries that died in her throat, feel the blood-hot trickle over her skin and the sting of sweat against her delicate wounds. The sensation of his power did not overwhelm her, heat and ache dull against her skin like the bruises she craved from him, like the ones she hoped his fingers would leave, tight around her neck, strangling her gasps. She could feel the taut trembling in her body, the way her cunt clenched around—around nothing, or around the very essence of him, it was so hard to tell.  


He did not allow her to move, which was for the best, as his hand crept lower and the tines of his clawed gauntlets parted her labia, one gloved finger brushing at the side of her clit so that she could not help but cry out. He crushed her throat in his grasp, and her head swam, and she shuddered and tried to keep herself still as she came. She could taste her own blood, could scent it on the air as he let go and she gasped, cold sea air wracking her with sensation anew. The rush of blood to her head made her dizzy, and she whimpered his name.  


He let her fall, and she collapsed to the sand, utterly spent. Impact sent damp sand spraying, and the smallest disruption shattered the ley lines, their commingled aether exploding around her, washing her in unbridled power. Nabriales loomed over her, and she whimpered, lifting a hand toward him.  


He knelt, leaning over her, pressing her back into the sand so that he could press his mouth to her neck, his teeth grazing the place where her pulse leapt. She could feel the bruise blossoming beneath his tongue. The nape of her neck ached with power, and her cunt ached with emptiness.

“I worry you have taken the wrong lesson here,” he said.  
She laughed, shakily, reaching for him. He let her put her arms around him, her blood smearing the dark leather of his robes.  
“You seem not to be discouraged,” Nabriales continued.  
“No,” she laughed.  
He lifted a hand to run his bloodied claws over her cheek. Her lips parted and she tasted iron and salt. “Worry not, little fool,” he said. “My hand will always find your throat.”

Kallisti leaned up to kiss him again, and, heedless of her blood on the sands, pulled him down with her. It would be a long while before the tides changed again, and they had hours to fill.


End file.
